Physicality
by Frakme
Summary: Sherlock contemplates needs of the flesh. Implied first time sex(not described). JohnLock.


**A/N So my second Sherlock fanfic! Goodness! Don't worry ENTers, normal service will resume.**

_Two weeks, three days and six hours._

Sherlock looked at the man sleeping in his bed. John was lying on his stomach, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting on Sherlock's hip. His lips were curved in a slight smile, his eyes moved rapidly under their lids.

_What are you dreaming, John Watson?_

He lifted a long fingered hand and lightly stroked the other man's sandy hair, lightly rubbing the strands between his fingers, memorising the texture. He trailed his fingers languorously down John's neck, to rest on the scar on his shoulder.

_Two weeks, three days and six hours._

The memory arose crystal clear in his mind, strangely quiet in the pre-dawn dark, the soft sounds of the city coming alive penetrating the glass of the curtained window. Of John's lips pressing against his own for the first time, taking him by surprise. John had pulled away, looking shocked and Sherlock, for once, had found himself lost for words.

"I'm not gay," he'd said.

"That's because you are not a label, Doctor," Sherlock had countered. "Don't try to fit yourself into a box, don't limit yourself by classifying who you are according to made up social constructs. Because that is _boring_."

John had stared up at him, faint puzzlement on his face as he digested what the detective was trying to tell him. Then a peace stole over his face and he reached up and kissed Sherlock again. This time the kiss was more insistent, John's tongue demanding entry. Sherlock had gathered the smaller man in his arms and gave into the kiss. He felt the rush of endorphins as he pressed John's body against his own. He pulled away, noting the faint flush to John's skin, the dilated pupils, the flutter of his pulse in his neck. Instead of feeling the usual contempt for other people giving into their baser emotions, their hormone driven impulses, he had marvelled at how he'd induced this reaction in this man. For the first time ever he'd wanted to respond in kind, wanted to allow his mind to rest while his body spoke for him.

He'd pulled John on to the sofa and they kissed again, until breathlessness on both their parts forced them apart.

They didn't make love that night, Sherlock had wanted to, eager to explore these new sensations and the uncharted territory of John's compact, muscular body, to catalogue by taste, touch, feel. But John had gently pushed him away.

"Not so fast," he'd said. "Let's take this slowly."

Sherlock had growled slightly in frustration, he never took anything slowly. But John was steadfast in his resolve, the brakes on Sherlock's runaway train, the earth to the detective's live wire.

And so over the next few days, in between a delicious case involving a local baker's, a hidden will and two half siblings locked in a rivalry after the untimely death ("Arsenic in the icing sugar, administered over several months, how pedestrian!") of their mother, Sherlock had Googled, Asked, Binged and otherwise searched, spent far too much time on RudeTube and Tumblr, trying to figure out the dynamics and process of how he was going to make love to his John.

John had watched in amusement, though now and again, he'd physically remove Sherlock's laptop from him, to kiss him gently, to gather the long, rangy limbs in his arms, gently caress him.

John had stumbled onto a secret, a way to still that frantic mind that raced light years ahead of other mere mortals'. With a gentle hand across a sharp cheekbone, butterfly kisses on the pulsepoint of his throat, stubby yet skilled surgeon's fingers carding through dark, tumbled curls. And Sherlock responded eagerly, like a great cat, rubbing himself against the solidness of the doctor.

Physical affection was something he'd had little experience of. His parents had been standoffish, leaving him and Mycroft mostly in the care of nannies and boarding schools. Mycroft had been more of a parent to him, dealing with the scrapes and bruises an inquisitive toddler always managed to acquire, wiping away snot and tears, when Sherlock was frustrated by the taunts of the other children in the playground. But Mycroft couldn't always be there for him and Sherlock had grown into a solitary figure, his mind his only companion. And no one touched him, until this doctor, this wounded warrior had entered his life.

Sherlock did not invite casual touch yet he found he craved the casual affection John had shown him from the very beginning, the touch of a hand on his arm or shoulder, gentle hands treating the wounds he invariably gathered on his cases.

He began to see the appeal of physicality, remembering once watching an episode of _Star Trek_, where the crew had encountered a race of disembodied beings. At the time, he'd felt a longing to be released from the flaws and shortcomings of his own body, to exist only in his mind palace.

Now as he gazed down at the sleeping body of his lover, remembering their slow, gentle lovemaking, he knew his body, as well as his mind, had a purpose. To cherish, to touch and to love this man lying abandoned in sleep next to him. Yin to his yang. Bright, shining day, to his shadowy night.

As his hands stroked John's back, the other man stirred, coming awake.

"Morning, Sherlock," said a sleep thickened voice. "How are you feeling?"

The detective, considered the question carefully and for once listened to his body, analysed its response to the question. A slight soreness in his rear, a restfulness in his limbs as a result of a good night's sleep. A rumbling in his belly.

"Hungry," he said, startled. John grinned as he moved to rub Sherlock's concave stomach. He sat up and kissed his lover.

"Stay here, love." John hopped out of bed, pulled on a pair of discarded boxers and went off to the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, he came back laden with a tray, with toast, smothered in lashings of butter and jam, and two mugs of builder's tea. He carefully set the tray on the bed and got back in. Then proceeded to feed Sherlock toast and tea, licking away at the crumbs and sticky jam that didn't quite make it to his mouth. Breakfast dispatched, the tray put aside and a hardness between his thighs, Sherlock pulled John against him.

Once again, they gave into their hormone driven lusts, merging into one. Afterwards, they lay quietly, Sherlock resting his head on John's chest, his mind soothed by a strong, steady heartbeat.


End file.
